


Snow Angel

by Aldebaran



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: But no, Gen, Opera Ghost style, fluffy Christmastime fun, no orchestral instruments were harmed during the course of this fic, the tuba might need some cleaning up though, you would think the Second Trombone would learn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 10:46:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28350099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aldebaran/pseuds/Aldebaran
Summary: At Christmastime, after a heavy snowfall in Paris, Christine teaches her Angel of Music an important lesson, one which the Opera Ghost then gleefully shares with the rest of the Opera Populaire, and later, alone on the roof of the Opera House, attempts to learn himself.
Relationships: Christine Daaé & Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17





	Snow Angel

** Snow Angel **

As grey dawn broke over the streets of Paris, the Opera Ghost stood high atop the roof of the Palais Garnier, surveying the thick snowfall that had settled over the city in the night, snow still falling, perfect flakes settling on his cloak, their crystalline shapes unmarred, becoming bright additions to the subtle jet beadwork adorning his collar and shoulders.

Erik had suspected this change in the weather when he had completed his rounds last evening with a final stop on the roof. The air had smelled of impending snow, reminding him of days long ago on the road in Russia, where learning the signs and portents of the weather’s whims had been a matter of life or death.

The light-bejeweled city had been beautiful from the heights last night and was even more so now, all ugliness revealed by the daylight hidden beneath smooth snowy white curves, like the mask which shielded the malformed side of his face from the horrified gaze of the world. And this was not winter in Russia. His life no longer danced upon a knife’s edge from day to day. He stood here, atop his Opera House, warmth and beauty and home within, snow kept safely without, waiting for the dancers and musicians and singers to come fill his halls with bright life and music, which he shaped as always subtly from the shadows. 

Well, and there was no more time to stand here gawking while snow collected at an impressive rate on the brim of his hat. There was much to be done this day, before the Palais emptied for the Christmas holiday, with a concert by the Opéra Populaire scheduled after, for the holiday season, and a new production starting in the coming year. The day would hold Christine’s early morning vocal lesson, a full concert ensemble rehearsal on stage at noon, with breakout practices and recitals in the afternoon.

The Opera House always bustled with life during the day, but never more so than at the holiday times. The artists, young and old, were caught up in what Erik understood to be the spirit of fellowship of the season, exchanging gifts, holding impromptu gatherings, filled with Christmas cheer, and above all, anxiously awaiting the time away from their work that the Christmas break provided. The days leading up to Christmas were filled with a palpable energy, waiting to be released as the company headed out on holiday. 

Then, ah, for him a few days of what had used to be blessed solitude, when he could roam the halls at will, mindful only of the few beleaguered guards tasked to work the holidays. Never very happy about it, they typically stayed close to the main guard station, leaving the gilded halls free for him to enjoy in peace, to marvel at the beauty contained within the Palais and of course to attend to more practical matters, ensuring seldom used secret access points remained in working order. Yes, the holidays were a perfect time for a survey of his Opera House, top to bottom, drifting purposefully alone through the long winter nights.

But this year was somehow different. Sweet solitude held less allure. He had grown accustomed to the new lessons with Christine, their daily interactions. Seeing her progress, shaping her voice into a beautiful reliable instrument to serve her all her days. Speaking with her on matters musical and personal. Using his guise as an angel to gain perspective on facets of human behavior that he had either been unaware of or which had somehow eluded him completely. Not that he truly cared, mind, nor would he have much occasion to put this newfound knowledge into practice, being the solitary creature he was. 

Still, she fascinated him…that is, what she had to say fascinated him. 

It was a good thing, then, that the work to be done in the Opera House, still and empty and quiet for the next few days, would occupy his time so completely.

Erik turned to go, his footprints from his earlier traverse already erased by the snow, leaving no doubt his new footprints would be obscured as well. He swept his hat off, releasing a sudden tiny blizzard into the wind. He felt the unexpected kiss of snowflakes on his cheek, and a warm flurry of sensation in his chest which he recognized with surprise as anticipation, anticipation of a pleasant day indeed, with all proceeding according to plan.

*********

Christine was late. Very late. Christine had never been so much as a minute late before, not for their morning lessons.

Erik fretted behind the mirror until the moment when the door to the dressing room flew open and Christine burst in, her arms full of bags and parcels, her blue cloak damp about her, her usual outside-of-the-opera upswept coiffure fallen, sending her auburn curls cascading about her shoulders, sparkling with snow. The vacant tableau of her dressing room came to vibrant life with her entrance, her cheeks and lips rosy with color as she spun to close the door behind her, calling for him immediately.

“Angel, oh Angel, I am so sorry! Are you here, did you stay?”

He had not the heart to make her wait a moment for his answer, though her calls for him were their own sweet music.

“My child, I am here. What befell you? And what is it that you carry there?”

“Oh, Angel,” Christine began, as she set her various burdens down on the vanity, easing woolen mittens from her hands, unfastening her cloak and tossing it over the dressing screen to dry. She perched her mittens precariously atop the screen as well. “It has snowed, have you seen, a very great snow, the most here in Paris in years and years!” She pulled a small pair of hair combs from the pockets of her dress, trying in vain to roll the snow-dampened curls of her hair and secure them away from her face. 

“I did see, and this delayed you somehow?” He felt like a fool. He seldom had to go abroad from the Opera House in inclement weather, unless he wished to, and he had not even considered the snow as a reason for the lateness of her arrival.

“Well, yes, it is not only snow, but ice beneath and walking is treacherous, especially for those not accustomed to snow! I daresay I spent more time helping people up this morning than I did on my own journey here.” Christine laughed, adding with sudden astuteness, in apparent consideration of his angelic nature and his potential ignorance about the meaning of her northern origins— “I am Swedish, you see, and used to the snow!” 

She busied herself sorting various packages that she fished from the bags she had carried, explaining as she worked. “We exchange gifts with each other for Christmas, the ballet girls do, and these are the presents I have brought with me to give.”

Of course. Gifts were customary at this season, he thought, as his chest inexplicably tightened.

Her hair came loose from the combs again and she pulled them free, rummaging in her vanity. “These are entirely too small, they always have been. I simply need to get larger ones, and give these away.”

She pulled a larger pair of combs from the drawer, evidently much used by the battered look of them and was finally able to set her hair away from her face to her satisfaction, though the rest of the snow-swept curls she left free, here in the confines of the Opera House, where the rules governing a young lady’s expected hair arrangement were a moot point at best among the bohemian members of the Opéra Populaire.

His eyes caught on her face as she peered into her vanity mirror, and he was struck suddenly that beneath the rosy glow imparted by the winter weather, she was pale, and somehow drawn, with faint lilac shadows beneath her eyes. 

It was not like her to complain about anything, especially something so inconsequential as a set of hair combs. Perhaps…

“Are you well? Are you agreeable to our lesson today?” he enquired. 

He drove her very hard, came the abrupt thought, as his gaze traced the stark line of her cheek, with these lessons in addition to the not insignificant demands of her duties in the company, singing in the chorus and dancing as well, under the also quite strict supervision of Monsieur Reyer and Madame Giry respectively. 

For all that she held these responsibilities, and for all that she had been through these past years—things she had shared with him during the time of their lessons and on other occasions when she called to him and he was able to answer—she was, he suddenly realized, still quite young. 

Young in a way he had never been allowed to be, and with a sudden hollowness expanding in his chest, he wondered if he was complicit in rushing her into adulthood with his stern expectations.

“Oh, yes,” Christine said, shaking her hair back one last time and coming to stand in the center of the room, poising herself for her warmups. “Some of us had hoped…well, had thought, that the day’s rehearsals might be cancelled due to the weather, but—” a look approaching worry crossed her face—“but I would never miss a lesson with you, Angel. And as it turns out, the day’s full schedule remains firmly in place.” Here her lip quivered, just slightly, and she cast her gaze down in what looked very like disappointment.

Oh dear. Abruptly, he was at a loss. He cast about for what to do and decided he needed more information.

“My child,” he said, “you know we have discussed before how I am ignorant of many things in this mortal world, and that I rely on you to be my guide in such matters.”

Christine lifted her head, nodding to the corner of the room where he had sent his voice to speak from.

“You must tell me truthfully, Christine. What had you and your companions hoped for this day? And please, dear one, sit down. Warm yourself before you even think of warming your voice.”

Christine crossed to the vanity and settled upon the little chair there, chafing her hands together and tucking them in the folds of her skirt. “Well, it seems so silly to say aloud, especially to you, Angel. Such trivial matters to concern you with, and really of no importance.”

“We have had this discussion before as well. There is nothing you cannot lay before me. Music is not made just with the voice, you will recall, but with the spirit. If the spirit is troubled or,” and here he paused, to rid his voice of any emotion save comfort, “or the body is tired, you must tell me, Christine. I am not always able to discern these things without your help.”

She shifted on the little chair, and then spoke. “Well, it is just, yes, we are tired, all of us, and we had hoped to be able to go out…and play.” She flushed, her pale features pinking in the soft light of the dressing room to match the high color of her cheeks and lips.

Play. In the snow?

Erik considered her in silence, information and observations assuming new configurations in his mind, Christine again leading him to a new perspective. He had anticipated a high level of energy from the company today, this he had observed before during previous holiday seasons. People with their minds on future plans, on gatherings with loved ones, eager to be done with their work.

But this morning, the Opera House fairly vibrated with the company’s restrained energy, and at last he understood—it was due to the snow! 

And Christine—not just his promising student, but a member of that company, a member of humanity in a way that he was far removed from, in a way that he had utterly failed to take into account.

Erik pulled in a deep breath in his place behind the mirror, letting it out slowly and quietly as he gripped his hands tightly together. She would work herself to exhaustion, catch her death of cold, to not miss a lesson from him. Her health could take a turn, due to illness or overwork, two things he himself was never troubled by—and he would be responsible.

He could not and should not hold her to his impossibly warped standards.

And he—he had had no consideration for her at all, none, not even arranging for something as simple as a holiday gift…

It simply would not do.

Perhaps there was something that could be done, to make amends. He addressed her, sending his voice again from the corner of the room.

“Play?” He hoped he did not sound nearly as confused as he felt. 

“In the snow, you know. It happens so rarely here!”

“Ah,” he said wisely, feeling thoroughly unenlightened. “And how, exactly, does one play in the snow?”

“Oh!” She leaned forward, clasping her hands, her voice animated and eyes bright. “There’s sledding of course, and snow forts, and snowmen, and snowballs…oh, and snow angels!” Here she laughed again. 

“I see,” he said, though he saw nothing of the sort. He remembered looking out of his shuttered window as a child, at a group of children throwing balls of snow at one another in the street, and from his Russian travels he knew what sleds were, but all else was mystery. His tone must have conveyed more than his words, because Christine continued, explaining.

“Well, sledding is riding something smooth down a hillside covered in snow. Snowmen are figures made out of large balls of snow, stacked with a bottom and middle and a top for a head. You can add branches for arms, buttons or coal for eyes, and a carrot for a nose. And then things like scarves and hats if you like. Oh, and snow forts are like walls made of snow, or sometimes square or domed houses. To play in, you see, or hide behind, especially in a snowball fight.” 

Christine tipped her chin down, shaking her head slightly, yet still smiling. “Snowball fights sound very mean when explaining them to an angel, but I promise you they are very fun! You make fist sized balls out of snow and throw them at one another. If you are feeling very wicked, you can pack them tightly, so they sting your target a bit.” 

She raised her eyes, skin coloring once more, and brought the subject back round to virtue. “Snow angels are when you flop down in a field of soft snow, flat on your back, and then you move your arms and legs to make shapes. The legs, see, make a robe and your arms make the wings. At least—” and she glanced again at the corner his voice issued from “—that is what we think angels look like, though we have no way to be sure they look anything at all like what we have imagined.”

Well, and time to change that topic. It all seemed very silly…but perhaps that was what was needed here. Some time not to be serious. Some time to simply…play. At the very least, he would cut this lesson short and give the girl a break this morning. She had dance practice very soon and then the full run through of the holiday concert with the whole company, dancers, chorus, and orchestra assembled on the stage. 

Today was the last day before the brief holiday break, and the show to commence very soon after everyone returned. They were already well practiced though, he had seen it for himself. The management could have made a different decision and called today’s rehearsals off altogether with no harm done. They were clearly as foolish as he himself had been.

It was time for that to change. And, he thought, his mind a whirl of ideas, time to share the lesson he had just learned. 

“Christine, a few scales please and that will suffice for today. Warm up properly prior to your rehearsal later this morning. You will want to be well prepared for anything.”

She rose from her seat to move to the center of the room again. “Oh, Angel, are you certain? I can do anything that you ask.”

“I am very certain, dear one. Sing today, then go from here and rest your voice, body and spirit until you return again next week. You have given me the lesson today, Christine, one this angel had not considered, that people need time to rest and play, to stay well for their work. I shall not forget it.”

*********

Erik lounged in casual repose in the flies high above the stage, which hummed with activity dozens of feet below. The flies were empty save for himself; there was only one backdrop needed for the post- Christmas concert the Opéra Populaire was preparing to rehearse, and that already in place, leaving the stagehands to concentrate on ground level tasks. Joseph Buquet’s many little nests of old drop cloths, where he napped away the hours hidden safely from view above the stage, were empty, Buquet himself busy sharing a flask of holiday cheer with the dayshift guards at their station. This set of circumstances had saved Erik quite a bit of time in dealing with unwanted attention, and ensured he had no audience for the completion of the project that had consumed his morning hours, and gave him also an excellent vantage from which to observe today’s proceedings.

He had been right about the effect of the holidays, and Christine’s observations about the snowfall enabled him to see even more clearly…no one wanted to be here today. They wished to be out, in the snow, left to their own devices

Idly, Erik observed the rehearsal layout. The orchestra was ensconced in the pit, doing their warm-ups as the conductor, Monsieur Desplat, presided in dreamy, absent-minded glory, bent over his sheet music, his hair a cottony white nimbus about his head. Desplat lived fully in the world of music, which condition Erik could understand, but alas, the music in Monsieur Desplat’s head often drowned out the real world shortcomings of several members of his orchestra. 

As if on cue, the Third Trombone hit a particularly sour note, causing Erik’s fingers to clench. And of course, the Second Trombone’s chair was empty, the man over in the string section, pressing his dubious attention upon one of the violinists—it scarcely mattered to Erik which one, nor, he suspected, did it matter much to the Second Trombone, whose criteria in choice of partners boiled down to alive and available.

Stage left stood the twittering semicircle of the chorus, no uniformity to their dress as they were not yet outfitted in full Christmas costume. Monsieur Reyer as usual strutted before them like a bantam cock, all nervous energy and sharp movement, his incessant frustration confined only by his perpetually too-tight jacket and too-small hat. Erik had to admit that the man knew his business, else Erik would have made it his business to have the répétiteur replaced years ago. No, Reyer was quite competent, and then some, despite a distressing tendency towards favoritism and inclination to fawn over said favorites, resulting in a failure to correct their slide into bad form.

And there stood the favorites themselves, La Carlotta and her partner Signor Piangi, at the downstage end of the chorus’s semicircle. La Carlotta, true to her character, alternated between looking bored and disdainful, while Piangi’s good nature asserted itself as he chatted with chorus members, yet, with the ease of long practice, and perhaps a well-developed sense of self-preservation, he remained constantly aware of and attentive to the ever-changing moods of his lady diva. As usual, Piangi had done a thorough warm-up, his pleasant tenor an accompaniment to Erik’s morning efforts in the flies, and also as usual, La Carlotta found warm-ups beneath her, which contributed to the daily erosion of her once supreme talent.

Stage right, a drift of tulle and satin, the ballet dancers fully costumed in their holiday concert regalia, complete with tall tiaras each adorned at the highest point with a glittering golden star, in sharp contrast to the stern black-clad presence of Madame Giry, staff at the ready. And there, speaking animatedly with Madame Giry’s blonde-haired daughter Meg, was Christine. Erik narrowed his eyes—he had heard Christine warming up as he worked and knew she had no dance role in this concert. If she were not careful, she would risk—

“Daaé!”

And there it was, Monsieur Reyer’s nasal voice rising above the sounds of the orchestra and sending Christine rushing across the stage to her place in the chorus. One would think, Erik mused, that a vocal coach of some renown would have made some effort towards making his own speaking voice less of an assault on the ear, but sadly, this was not the case. One of the ballerinas, a particularly unpleasant girl with dark eyes and scornful brows, far too aware of her own beauty, laughed and muttered something to her compatriots, while Meg frowned fiercely at her. Erik cocked his head, and made a mental note of the scoffer’s position. 

All in good time.

He settled back to wait for the rehearsal to begin.

*********

The company was restive, there was no doubt of it. Errors in previously solid performances abounded. The ballet girls had missed their cue again and stood sullenly until a broad overblown note from the First Bassoon, a young man relatively new to the orchestra, sent them into a fit of giggles which seemed to set them more at ease. A deliberately overblown note, thought Erik, knowing a player of that caliber and on that fine of an instrument would have to work at producing such a sound. 

Yes, and that reminded him, strings and woodwinds. Special consideration would have to be taken for strings and woodwinds...

The chorus was also off, and Monsieur Reyer was growing more and more heated, stopping the songs, launching into his familiar tirade of “No, no, no! Nearly, but no!” repeatedly, which was ostensibly supposed to be both helpful and comforting and which in reality was neither.

Erik caught sight of Christine’s pale, strained face amongst the chorus as the rehearsal moved forward into the third selection. Three selections out of twenty, and at this rate hours upon hours of work for the beleaguered members of the company, and every bit of this realization showing in her expression.

It was time for the lesson to begin. As taught by Christine to her Angel, thence from Angel to Opera Ghost, and now, with very great pleasure, from Opera Ghost to the whole of the Opéra Populaire…

The ensemble was several bars in, orchestra, chorus, and dancers striving for synchronicity, when Monsieur Desplat was roused from his world of music by the sight and sound of his woodwind section and his string section ceasing their play, and standing to put away their instruments with some haste.

“Here, now,” he sputtered, as the brass played gamely on, the singers and dancers onstage continuing, determined, it seemed, to make it through this song come what may. “What are you doing?”

The First Violin spoke up. “Why sir, only what you told us! You said rehearsal’s off, to pack our things and go!”

“I said no such thing!” Desplat declaimed, as the strings and woodwinds persisted, that no, they had all heard it, plain as day, as though he had spoken right in their very ears…

On stage, the chorus gamely continued, but the lack of complete accompaniment and the distraction of the many standing figures in the pit finally threw them off, and Reyer brought them to an uneven halt as per usual.

“No, no, no! Nearly, but—”

SPLAT!

Seemingly out of nowhere, Reyer was hit in the back of the head by a wickedly accurate snowball, which knocked his hat off amid a spectacular spray of glittering snow.

A second whizzing sphere smacked the headdress off of a particular ballerina, icy cold snow wiping the ever-present smug expression off of her face.

In the stunned silence which followed, an odd sound was heard, dozens of ropes passing through dozens of pulleys, as an equal number of buckets descended rapidly to every far flung area of the stage, coming quietly to rest amidst the company.

Each bucket was heaped to overflowing with snowballs.

And it was on.

High above the fray, Erik rocked with silent laughter as the stage devolved into a battlefield.

The orchestra wasted no time in storming the stage and commandeering ammunition, the strings and woodwinds with their instruments safely stowed (thanks to the early warning they had received) versus the later arriving brass section, all of them at one point joining forces to pelt Monsieur Desplat rather mercilessly until he seized a music stand as a shield and made his way out of the orchestra pit to the safety of the far reaches of the auditorium.

Madame Giry made a small attempt to control the corps de ballet and might have done so, had not her canny instincts led her to glance upward at the flies, where Erik allowed her to see him. He waggled a snowball at her from his own private stash, and she sighed, stepping back and releasing the ballet dancers to do their worst.

The chorus, who rather sportingly had not attacked the still recovering Monsieur Reyer, and who had instead turned gleefully on each other, solidified into a unit when faced with the raging attack of the ballerinas. Reyer’s immunity was short lived as he was caught in a blistering crossfire, not at all by accident, as Erik was able to discern from his superior vantage point. He noted with both surprise and delight that Christine got in a few hits on him herself.

In fact, Erik’s one concern, for Christine’s safety, had dissolved immediately as he saw her good Swedish instincts and good Swedish arm turn her into a smiling yet fierce combatant. She was well-liked by the company and not the malicious target of anyone that Erik could tell, save the scornful ballerina who, while she was a talented dancer, had no arm at all. Her mistaken attack on Christine was decisively countered and Erik added a hard packed ice ball to the middle of her back for good measure as she attempted to flee the stage.

Piangi, an enormous but well-liked target, was spared and used his seeming immunity to shield Carlotta, who huffed in red-faced outrage as he attempted to maneuver her off the stage before the worst happened.

And he would have made it, too, thought Erik, as he considered trajectories for a hit on Carlotta which proved impossible due to Piangi’s intercession—until the stagehands arrived. Arming themselves from a row of untouched buckets at the back of the stage, they fired at will, and with enviable accuracy, at La Carlotta, their bane and tormentor for many long seasons, reducing her despite Piangi’s shielding presence to a sodden bedraggled state in a matter of mere seconds.

Erik sought out a few especially irritating company members for his own strikes from above, and had then turned to amusing himself by lobbing high arcing shots into the orchestra pit, sending snowball after snowball into the bell of the abandoned tuba, when he caught sight of a particular nemesis, the Second Trombone, heading away from the fray towards the far backstage.

The man was a menace, his insatiable nature and never ending supply of willing partners resulting in innumerable trysts, and Erik had grown tired of stumbling across him all throughout the Opera House in the most unexpected places…and positions.

Sure enough, the Second Trombone had again seized the day with one of the violinists, and as the couple prepared to conduct a private symphony of their own backstage, Erik took great delight in dumping a full bucket of icy snowball melt upon them from the great height of the flies, bringing their performance to a chilling conclusion.

Satisfied, Erik returned to his perch above the stage. The battle still raged. Christine had switched allegiances back to the corps de ballet, and stood now shoulder to shoulder with Meg. They dodged and weaved incoming missiles with dancer’s grace, laughing all the while.

Never had he seen Christine so animated, so vibrant. So simply happy. His fingers, icy cold from snow, warmed as he pressed his hands to his chest, feeling his heart alive beneath his palms.

His attention was drawn away to Monsieur Lefèvre arriving stage left. Erik watched in astonished bemusement as Madame Giry made her way serenely from stage right, through the pitched battle, not one single member of the Opéra Populaire so much as daring to dream of throwing a snowball anywhere near her, to confer briefly with him. The two concluded their conference, Lefèvre threw his hands up and stalked away, and Madame Giry turned, striking her staff sharply upon the stage twice, bringing an immediate cessation of hostilities.

“Rehearsals for the day are concluded,” she announced. “We will reconvene next week, after the break.”

She silently surveyed the wet and disheveled assemblage of supposed professionals before her.

“Merry Christmas,” she intoned, and she sighed.

*********

Erik returned to the roof in time to see the liberated company, now hastily clad in their winter gear, spill out onto the front plaza of the Opera House. The snowball fight was quickly rejoined and spread out along the sidewalks and across the streets, and grew in intensity with the addition of staid bankers and stolid businessmen to the combat, grinning madly beneath their top hats and homburgs. Mesdames and mademoiselles joined in as well, in plain spun aprons or hats the height of fashion. Snowballs made equals of them all.

But there—there she was, Christine, with Meg, joining in the snowball fight.

Even at this distance he could see the silver and blue glint in her hair that meant she had found his gift when she returned to the dressing room for her cloak and mittens.

Hair combs, a pair, a design of intricately carved silver set with sapphires that matched her cloak and her eyes.

Erik cast his mind back to the warm Persian night, as far from the crisp air and glittering snow-covered streets of Paris as could be conceived, when he had been gifted the combs. There had been a boy, missing a leg above the knee, and Erik had had a thought of something that could be constructed, jointed at knee and foot, to allow the boy to walk. So simple really, it had taken him mere days to construct. His parents had been overjoyed, and the mother had offered the combs in gratitude. Erik had made to protest but ultimately had been unable to refuse and really, despite their uselessness to him, the combs were so beautiful they were hard to resist. 

The combs had made their way back here with him, surviving the travels and adventures he had had since leaving Persia long ago. It had been a simple matter, among his tasks this morning, to return to his home beneath the Opera House and fetch some things away, the combs, a bit of pretty paper to wrap them in and a few other oddments that were here with him now in a cloth bag tucked by his feet.

Writing a note to accompany the gift had been quite a bit harder. He had decided against lengthy explanations of how an Angel could possibly gift a material object…if the subject were broached later, he would come up with something. Disguising his handwriting was old hat—his own handwriting was often rushed and scrawled as it attempted to keep up with the flow of his mind’s ideas. The Opera Ghost had very different penmanship indeed than his own. And so must the Angel, in a hand differing from both.

It was the sentiment that eluded him. He settled upon writing that he would see her upon her return after the Christmas break, to remind again she needn’t show up for their lessons for those few days. And then he thought to finish with “Merry Christmas” and realized he had never written, or spoken those words for that matter, in all the many and varied years of his life…

A sharp gust of wind that threatened to snap the edges of his cloak from his grasp brought him back to the rooftop. Clearly the gift and note had been found and must have been passable, for Christine had already set the combs in her lush curls. She was closer now, on the crowded sidewalk below, snowballs flying as a lone bicyclist, head down, rode close enough to become an instantly popular target, pelted with a will by all parties, save Christine. The cyclist fell, knocking his cap loose, as his bicycle slid beneath him on the icy street. 

The bombardment was merciless as he attempted to retrieve his bicycle from where it had fallen…until Christine, arms raised, stepped next to him. The assailants, seemingly chagrined, turned their attentions back to each other as Christine brushed the bicyclist off, retrieved his cap for him and sent him peaceably on his way.

Erik shook his head, his hands unaccountably warming again. He would know her anywhere, he thought, simply by her actions. A merciful, caring young woman, who would forgive her poor Angel for not understanding that people needed to play and rest.

The combs, silver and sapphire, sparkled in her hair. 

He was glad to have been able to gift her some laughter today as well.

She and Meg made their way to the front plaza to join a group constructing figures out of snow. Ah, these must be snowmen, and snow ladies as well, for the figures were those of the principals of the Opéra Populaire. Simple shapes, made of three large snowballs stacked atop one another; nevertheless, due to the accompanying accessories it was easy to tell who was supposed to be who. Christine and Meg helped with a figure of Piangi, a very large snowman indeed.

After a time, the girls left the group, and started, he knew, on their way to their homes. Madame Giry drifted gracefully out to join them, and they began their walk. Meg suddenly stopped, pulling her mother’s hands to stop her too, and she and Christine made their way over to an untroubled patch of snow. Laughing, they flung themselves backward, arms sweeping vigorously from their sides to above their heads and the position of their feet indicating that their legs described arcs worthy of da Vinci as well. Carefully rising so as not to disturb the patterns they had made, they hopped back to the sidewalk to admire their handiwork. There, in the snowfield, two angels now appeared. Christine patted at her hair, checking for her new combs, he fancied, and the trio, after some dusting off, continued on their way, to their waiting homes.

Erik watched until she was out of sight, watching longer still as the day began to fade toward evening. The snowfall, which had continued on and off throughout the day, was on again, lazy flakes riding the wind and spiraling down like falling stars.

And now, he supposed, it was time for his own lesson. 

For Erik and the boy he had never had a chance to be.

He looked around the snowy expanse of the rooftop, and thought of Christine’s list. The snowball fight had been accomplished. Sledding…was not an option. Oh, it would be quite possible on the higher, steeper pitched portions of the roof of the Palais Garnier, but the inevitable conclusion must give one pause.

Snow forts….again he considered the snow-covered Opera House. Well, and he already had the grandest snow fort anyone could imagine.

That left only two items on the list, and he set to the snowmen with a will that surprised him.

In short order, he had two figures, one tall, one smaller. He eyed the bag he had brought with him. It contained buttons for eyes, blue for Christine, brown and blue for himself. For his own figure, he had brought a hat, unused since a midnight sortie some months back had gone rather awry and he and the hat had had to make a quick detour into the Seine. And for Christine’s, well, he had brought away the small unwanted hair combs when he had delivered his gift to her dressing room. They would be returned of course, as the snow melted.

But…even with these accoutrements accounted for in the final design, the figures struck him as clumsy and unrefined. 

If he was meant to be having fun, damn it, it should be fun for him, not an assault on his artistic sensibilities.

He set to the figures again, shaping, sculpting, a dress here, a cloak there, adding snow as needed until the figures took on a fuller semblance of life.

He finished Christine first, her face taking shape beneath his hands, her hair now tumbling about her shoulders, a cascade of sparkling snow. He stepped back, to consider. Yes, this was recognizable as Christine to anyone who had even a passing acquaintance with her. Soft yet strong. Demure yet commanding attention. Graceful even at rest.

The buttons for eyes did not suit this sculpt, but the combs... Carefully, he set them amid the snowy waves of her hair, and was pleased with the result.

His own form took shape even more quickly, lean straight lines, the billows of his cloak, long hands with icy frozen fingers of snow, shining slicked back hair.

The face… He sculpted the left side first, smooth unmarred features, half of a firm-lipped mouth, the long straight line of one side of his nose, jaw and cheekbone and brow sharp and defined.

And then he stopped, eyes closed, brow furrowed and surely it was only melting snow he felt upon his cheeks...

The decision reached, he faced himself again and with trembling hands worked on the right side of his face, sculpting not a mask, but a semblance which matched the left, his face as it should have been, in some world out of time where he had been born a boy who could go outdoors, who had learned how to play, who had known the joys of family and home and love.

Stepping back, he saw a man he did not know, but somehow wished to. And next to the man, the girl who was fast becoming his teacher, perhaps leading him to come to know this strange version of himself at her side.

Shaking his head at his odd evening fancies, Erik delved into the bag, finding the hat, well suited to the figure before him, the hat having seen and been through much and lived to tell the tale. Settling it on the figure’s head, he tipped it low on the right side, as he wore his own, and acting on some instinctual impulse, with his finger he drew a line on the snowy visage, slanting from the left forehead to the right corner of the mouth, which he found comforting in some unknowable way.

Well. That left only one item on the list. 

Removing his cloak and hat, he sat in the snow some small distance from the snow people, and laying back, moved his arms and legs in great sweeping, freeing arcs, his length of limb creating a startling large angel when he stood and inspected it.

An Angel of Music. 

Something he and Christine genuinely had in common. Long before he came into her sphere, she had been visited by the Angel of Music; it was evident in her talent and passion and power. 

And despite the vagaries of his life and birth, one thing he was truly grateful for, one thing that had saved him time and again, one thing that he believed in above all else, was his own visit from the very same angel.

It seemed fitting that these snow versions of himself and Christine had their own angel, as well. 

He drew a staff in the snow between angel and student and teacher and with careful touches from the toes of his shoes, wrote a song in the snow for them to share. Although at this point, on this day, on this night, it was really rather moot now as to who was the student and who the teacher.

Erik dusted himself off, donning cloak and hat again, rolling the bag of buttons small enough to tuck into his pocket, and strode to the edge of the roof to look out over the city.

Paris lay covered in an absolution of pure white snow, a forgiveness of drifts that gleamed and glittered in the city lights below.

Snow swirled in the wind, and he knew by morning, his and Christine’s snow features would be blurred into generality, the angel windswept to a soft impression of the powerful muse he knew, the snow song unreadable and unknown except to those who had been there when it was written. 

All fading into the past, leaving only tomorrow in view.

He felt again a tingle that he recognized as anticipation. The break would not be too long. Christine would return. Their mutual lessons would resume. Who knew what they would learn together?

Leaning out, over the roof’s edge, he spoke, and watched his words turn to mist, carried off by the ghost of an evening breeze.

“Merry Christmas, Christine…”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Timebird84's 2020 PotO Advent Calendar on tumblr, day 23.
> 
> So many thanks to my first reader [Riffler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riffler/pseuds/Riffler) for a careful reading that turned up some needed structural changes, but most importantly for her listening ear and support as I go through an apparently inevitable cycle of concern and doubt before, during and after the writing process. Could never do this without you, my friend.
> 
> Thanks also to [Flora_Gray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flora_Gray/pseuds/Flora_Gray) for some helpful feedback and for enthusiastically allowing a few small references to one, a character and two, a small bit of business that eagle-eyed readers will find in one of her own works. Not telling which one!
> 
> And to Timebird84 over on tumblr (@timebird84) for her amazing coordination of this event for several years now! More than 24 creations, stories and artwork, exist now because Timebird put out the call and organized the event. And I know everyone had just as much fun as I did, having a new creation to enjoy each and every day of the 24 days leading up to Christmas Day! Play and rest, we all need it, now, it seems, more than ever!


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